


That Swell Liberty Gal Carrying A Torch For You

by Redrikki



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bechdel Test Fail, Captain America Adventure Program, Female Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-14 11:24:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13589034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redrikki/pseuds/Redrikki
Summary: Angie was sure that skinny Steve had been a real swell guy, but there was no way he'd been good enough for her Peggy.A series of conversations makes her change her mind.





	That Swell Liberty Gal Carrying A Torch For You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roboticonography](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/gifts).



> Title comes from the song "You're a lucky fellow Mr. Smith" by Don Raye. 
> 
> Thanks to [Sholio](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio) for the beta.

Angie didn’t mean to be a snoop. Oh, who was she kidding? She’d been trying to get to the bottom of the mystery of Peggy Carter since the woman first walked into the automat. It just felt like Peggy was always holding back, even in their closest moments over pie and alcohol, and it only made Angie want to find out more. Yeah, she was a snoop all right, but she hadn’t come to Peggy’s room for a revelation. All she wanted was to borrow a clean pair of stockings.

As Howard Stark’s very special agent friend, Peggy had gotten the larger of the two rooms in their palatial apartment. If Angie’s room was as big as her childhood bedroom plus her parents’ room combined, Peggy’s was all that plus half their old sitting room. And that wasn’t even counting the walk-in closet or ensuite bathroom. Peggy must have been in one or the other because Angie didn’t spot her as she made the long trek across the fancy Persian carpet from the door to the dresser.

Angie was pawing through Peggy’s sock drawer when she spotted the unfamiliar photograph on the dresser next to the one of Peggy’s folks and dead brother. While the other was a nice bit of formal portraiture, this one was a candid snapshot of a scrawny blond soldier. It looked like Peggy didn’t have any clean stockings either, so Angie closed in the drawer with a push of her hip and snatched up the picture instead. She might as well get something out of this, and a chance to look at a man important enough to warrant a spot on Peggy’s dresser was too good an opportunity to pass up.

After a few minutes consideration, Angie decided he wasn’t _too_ bad looking despite his pinched and exhausted features. He had a good strong jaw that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a comic book hero and a fire in his eyes. All he needed was about ten inches more height and seventy pounds more weight and she wouldn’t say no to dancing. As it was, she mostly wanted to feed him pie and sandwiches until he stopped looking so hungry. The longer she stared at his face, the more Angie was convinced that she met him before. She just couldn’t think of where. 

“Can I help you with something?” Peggy said rather coolly behind her and Angie just about jumped out of her skin.

The photograph hit the carpet with a dull thump as Angie pressed her hands against her racing heart. “Don’t do that! You just about scared the stuffing out of me!”

Peggy looked down at the photo and raised a pointed eyebrow. 

Angie flushed. “Sorry.” She bent down to pick up the picture, dusting some nonexistent dust off the frame. “I came in to ask if I could borrow some stockings and I guess I just got curious about your mystery man.” She held it out to her friend. “Who is he anyway?”

Peggy took the offered picture and inspected it for damage. Her expression softened as she stroked his face. “That’s Steve,” she said quietly, a world of grief in her voice.

That was…unexpected. Angie had figured Peggy had lost someone in the war in addition to her brother, but not _Steve_. Someone as amazing as Peggy deserved a man who was a suave as Mr. Jarvis, as smart as Howard Stark, and as brave as Captain America. Angie was sure Steve had been a swell guy, but she didn’t see how he could have been anywhere near good enough for her friend.

“He was your fella,” Angie said, half hoping she was wrong.

“Yes, I suppose he was,” Peggy dispelled that bit of hope as she gently placed the picture back on the dresser next to her family. She gave it one last, loving touch, took a deep, bracing breath, and plastered on an almost aggressively cheerful smile. “I have some clean stockings drying in the bath. Let’s see if any will do.”

Angie gave the photo one last look before trotting obediently after her. She was sure skinny Steve must have had something going for him, nice smile, great personality, but she just couldn’t see it.

*****

The Captain America Adventure Program wasn’t the best thing on the air, but Peggy’s sarcastic running commentary always made it worth tuning in. Whenever their work schedules lined up, the two of them would settle in in front of the sitting room radio, Peggy with the newspaper crossword and Angie with her knitting, and have a fine old time poking fun at the bad dialog and Ellen French’s worse acting. Tonight, Peggy huffed and rolled her eyes as Betty Carver, the 107th’s beautiful triage nurse, found herself captured once again by Nazis. That had to be the third time this week.

“Oh, thank you, Captain America. You’re so brave and strong,” Betty gushed. “Where would I be without you?”

“Dead of your own incompetence, most likely,” Peggy muttered, the newspaper rustling as she tried to flatten it.

“Don’t worry you pretty little head about it, Miss Carver,” said Cap. “Can’t expect a woman to defend herself after all.”

All traces of amusement fled from Peggy’s face. “That is it,” she said, angrily twisting the knob to another station.

Angie raised her eyebrow. It had been weeks since the last time Peggy had gotten annoyed enough to change the station. Last time it had been when Captain America had said something about coloreds knowing their place. Figured a girl like Peggy might have a problem with the idea women couldn’t look after themselves. Still, that didn’t explain why Peggy seemed to loathe one of America’s most popular radio programs even when they weren’t pushing her buttons.

“You know what my beef with this show is. Wanna tell me yours?” Even after all these months, it still stung that the producers had chosen that floozie Ellen French over her, just because she had too much self respect to put out on the casting couch. Somehow she didn’t think Peggy had the same problem. 

Peggy pursed her lips and stuck her nose in her crossword. “It’s a stupid, annoyingly repetitive show that wouldn’t know a decent plot if it fell over it. My beef, as you call it, is nothing more than discerning taste.”

“Uh huh,” said Angie, “and here I thought I was the actor around here.” No one could pull off English haughty quite like Peggy, but the performance had been just a little too over the top to be believable. “Don’t quit your day job. Now,” she set aside her knitting and leaned attentively forward, “why don’t you tell me what your real problem is?”

Peggy’s grip on her pen grew tighter and tighter and Angie braced herself for the angry brush off. Just when it looked like Peggy might implode under the pressure of her secrets, she burst instead. “He wasn’t like that,” she snapped, angrily throwing aside her pen.

“Who wasn’t?” Angie’s eyes went wide as the answer occurred to her. “Captain America? You know Captain America?”

Angie had met him once, getting his autograph after a show. She couldn’t have said if he respected women or coloreds or not. All she knew was that his face made her stutter and his body made her want to rush out and buy war bonds. 

Peggy groaned. “I can’t believe I told you that.” 

“Right. Because you met him through the ‘phone company.’” Angie still didn’t know which secret agency Peggy worked with or if it was even the same one from during the war, but loose lips could still sink ships with all those commies running around. “I won’t tell a soul,” she promised. “Hand to god.”

“I trust your discretion,” Peggy said with a tight little smile, “but you do understand my relationship with Captain America is all highly classified.”

“Relationship?” Peggy Carter, her Peggy Carter, had had a _relationship_ with Captain America? “Oh my god,” Angie gasped. “You’re Betty Carver!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Peggy snapped. She snatched up her crossword and stormed off before Angie could even figure out how to close her gaping mouth.

God, she really must have been Betty Carver, or at least who Betty Carver was supposed to be based on. No wonder she hated that show. Betty Carver couldn’t fight her way out of a wet paper bag. Her whole character existed to shill sewing machines and be rescued every other episode. It must be pretty galling for a woman like Peggy to be reduced to useless love interest. There was just one thing that didn’t sit right with that scenario. If Peggy had been in a relationship with Captain America, then what the hell had she been doing with scrawny Steve?

*****  
She couldn’t have said what, but Angie had known there was something up long before she and Peggy came home from the club to find Howard Stark sprawled drunk across the sitting room floor. Angie had barely gotten in the door after work before Peggy insisted they go out dancing. She didn’t care where, as long as it wasn’t the Stork Club, but they needed to go. After a double shift, Angie hadn’t exactly been in the mood, but it had been ages since they’d been out and there was a weird hint of desperation in Peggy’s eyes. So, Angie had traded her uniform for a nice dress and slipped a pair of dancing shoes over her aching feet and off they went. 

Turned out, they would have been better off staying at home. Instead of enjoying the evening, all Peggy did was stand at the bar and mope. She turned down six guys, right in a row, saying she was waiting for the right partner. After a half-an-hour of that nonsense, Angie decided Peggy could just mope around at home while Angie soaked her aching feet in Epsom salts. 

Back at the apartment, Angie kicked off her shoes and yelped as Howard swayed up from the floor like a cobra from a snake-charmer’s basket. “Where’ve you been?” he slurred.

“Dancing,” said Angie as she hung up her coat.

“Dancing?!” Howard lurched forward. “What? Did you forget what day it is?” he shouted at Peggy.

“I am painfully aware what day it is,” Peggy said coolly. “Would you prefer if I spent it alone in my widow’s weeds?”

Howard reeled backwards from the quiet intensity of her anger. “I thought we’d spent it together,” he said quietly with an expression like a kicked puppy.

“Oh, Howard,” sighed Peggy, her own expression melting into something softer and infinitely sadder.

Angie looked back and forth between them. “What day is it? What happened?” 

“Today is the day that Captain America died,” Howard said solemnly and Peggy squeezed her eyes shut like she was trying not to cry.

What? That felt like something that should have been in all the papers, but maybe not. Captain America may have been a real person to Peggy and Howard, but to most people he was a symbol. Announcing he was dead would be like saying Uncle Sam had kicked it. From the way the two of them were acting, there was no way Howard was lying, even it wasn’t exactly common knowledge.

Angie took Howard’s arm and steered him to sit down before he fell down. “So you knew him too?” she asked as she lowered him onto the couch.

“Knew him? I made him!” 

“You did not!” snapped Peggy.

“Group effort,” Howard said with a careless wave of his hand. “You,” he pointed to her, “me, Abe, and Steve. Can’t forget Steve.”

“Steve? Peggy’s Steve?” Angie looked to her friend for confirmation, but Peggy had her spy face on and was giving nothing away. She turned back to the one person who was actually talking. “What did Steve have to do with Captain America?”

Howard leaned in close, his breath smelling like a distillery. “Steve _was_ Captain America.”

“Howard!” Peggy said sharply, but he kept right on going.

“We put Steve in this box, see, me and Abe Erskine. We pumped him full of chemicals, then bing, bang, boom,” he clapped his hands together and then threw them wide like a child performing a magic trick, “Captain America!” His triumphant expression faded and his eyes filled with tears. “He was the last good thing I ever made. The last good thing.” 

“That’s it,” said Peggy. “I’m calling Mr. Jarvis to take you home before you spill any more government secrets.”

“Please, Peg.” Howard caught her arm as she reached the phone. “I’ll be good. Just let me stay. They don’t know what it meant to lose him.”

Peggy hesitated instead of just shaking him off and it occurred to Angie that maybe her friend needed a good cry with Howard too. Certainly a lot more than she needed a night of pussyfooting around her pain and not dancing. 

“Look,” Angie stood up, “my feet are killing me.” She bent to retrieve Howard’s half-empty bottle of scotch and set it on the end table next to the telephone. “You two cry, drink, whatever you need to do. I’m going to bed,” she said and Peggy’s shoulders slumped with relief.

If she stayed, Howard would probably tell Angie everything she’d ever wanted to know about Peggy, Steve, and this Captain America stuff. Heck, he might even be drunk enough to tell her how to build a nuclear bomb while he was at it. As much as Angie wanted answers, there was a time to snoop, and a time to go soak your feet and let your friend grieve in private.

*****

The next morning, Angie made her father’s hangover cure. It was nasty stuff, but it usually did the trick. She left Howard passed out on the couch and went to wake Peggy for work. She was pretty sure spies didn’t get to call in sick, or, if they did, they at least needed to be awake to do it. 

Peggy was lying face down and snoring on top of the covers when Angie slipped into her room. She was still wearing last night’s clothes, but had at least taken off her shoes and a few of her hairpins. The photograph of Steve had migrated from the dresser to the nightstand and Peggy had probably fallen asleep looking at his face. 

Angie set the cure down and picked up the picture. Now that she knew to look for it, she could see the resemblance. Same jaw, same nose: whatever Howard had done to Steve had done wonders for his body, but hadn’t really changed his face. Funny how sticking it on an amazing body made it that much more attractive.

Peggy stirred with a groan. “Angie?” She rubbed her eyes, further smearing the tear-streaked mess of last night’s make-up. 

“Hey,” Angie said gently. “How are you feeling? I brought a little something for your head,” she added, gesturing toward the hangover cure.

“Oh, I’m alright,” Peggy lied, grimacing at the sight of the steaming mug. Angie had made it for her once before. She’d felt loads better after she’d thrown up, so Angie didn’t see why she was turning her nose up at it now. “I didn’t have anywhere near as much as Howard.”

Despite her bedraggled raccoon look, Peggy didn’t seem as hungover as Angie had thought she’d be. She was moving a little slow, but she wasn’t flinching from the morning sunlight streaming in through the curtains. She froze as her gaze snagged on the picture still in Angie’s hand. 

“About Steve—”

“I won’t say a thing,” Angie rushed to assure her, “and I understand why you didn’t tell me about him, but—” she hesitated, biting her lip. “Why this picture? There had to be a better one from…after.”

Peggy took so long to consider, Angie was sure she wasn’t going to answer. “I didn’t fall in love with Captain America,” she said finally. “He was gorgeous—”

“I’ll say.” The man had looked like a statue of a Greek god. 

“He was gorgeous,” Peggy continued like Angie hadn’t interrupted at all, “but it was all just window dressing. Underneath, he was still just Steve.” She took the photograph from Angie’s hands and smiled fondly down at it. “I fell in love with the boy who got beaten up in every back alley in Brooklyn because he didn’t know how to back away from a fight. He tried to enlist in half-a-dozen cities and volunteered for a painful and dangerous medical experiment because other men were dying and he couldn’t do any less.”

Sounded like this Steve character was just as brave and stubborn and crazy as girl Angie knew. They must have been amazing together. 

“It’s a real shame I never got to meet him. Seems like just your type.”


End file.
